


When You're Gone

by ElysiumsFalling



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Canon, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-30
Updated: 2020-01-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:15:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22475467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElysiumsFalling/pseuds/ElysiumsFalling
Summary: A part of him was raw and in tatters. He wanted this to be done. He wanted the search over with; wanted Voldemort dead and forgotten. He wanted - Ron back.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Ron Weasley
Comments: 2
Kudos: 132
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 5





	When You're Gone

**Author's Note:**

  * For [plumeria47](https://archiveofourown.org/users/plumeria47/gifts).



> This was based on the suggestion that the books were written with Harry/Ron in mind rather than Ron/Hermione. There are parts taken from both the book and the movie and I take credit for none of the original canon passages.
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

The world stopped, frozen in a haze of blinding anger and hurt. Harry’s heart pounded hard and fast, loud enough that it drowned out everything save for the frantic sound of Hermione calling out Ron’s name as she chased after him. They’d fought. The things they’d said… the things they’d done. Harry’s fingers tightened around his wand. 

“Ron,” he croaked, reality and fear mingling so suddenly and ferociously that it nearly buckled his knees.

Instead, he was moving. Ron was leaving. He was leaving them. Leaving him.

“Ron!” he screamed, his own desperate calls mingling with Hermione’s.

But it was too late. The moment Harry cleared the opening of the tent, Ron turned on the spot, his gaze landing on Harry for only a moment before he was gone. Disapparated. Harry’s heart jerked painfully in his chest and he stumbled a few steps more before staggering and falling, knees slamming into the dirt and gravel beneath him.

“He’s g-g-gone,” Hermione cried, but her words seemed muffled somehow. Far away.

Harry stared at the place Ron had disappeared, gaze so intent that his mind convinced him - for a moment - that the redhead might reappear. 

Only he didn’t. 

Hermione drifted past him, back into the tent, but Harry remained. He stared out into the dark, gaze unfocused, wondering how things had gone so badly, so fast.

* * *

The next morning found Harry going through the motions. He’d sat on the edge of his bed for a while just staring at Ron’s empty bunk. Last night had seemed more like a nightmare than reality, but Ron’s absence was as real as the growing ache in Harry’s chest. 

They’d been at odds before. Ron had been near impossible during the Triwizard Tournament. He’d been jealous and petty. They’d gone days without speaking. Weeks even. But Ron had come around. He’d helped Harry, worried over him. There’d even been a moment, after the dragon, that Harry had thought - that he’d felt - something between them.

Over the years, that something had become more for him. He’d thought it more for Ron as well, but now - now Harry was questioning himself. Had he read too much into the other boy’s affection? Had he mistaken friendship for love? He’d worried while Ron had dated Lavender - or rather brooded - but that had ended quickly enough, and Ron had been a moody, irritating git when Harry’d gone through his phase with Ginny. But then, the morning of Bill and Fleur’s wedding, they’d shared this moment in Ron’s room. Harry had helped Ron with his tie and his thumb had brushed Ron’s neck. Ron had stepped closer, their eyes locked, and then Mr. Weasley had called them down to help with the tent. He was certain he’d seen Ron’s eyes dart to his lips, but then Harry had been certain about a lot of things at the time that he wasn’t so certain of anymore.

Part of him wished he’d followed through with his plan of leaving on his own. If he’d gone, even with the trace still on him, it would have taken the focus off the Weasley’s. Hermione might have been safe with them on her own. Instead, she was stuck out here with him in the middle of nowhere, making no progress, and losing all faith that Harry could do what he’d set out to do. Ron hadn’t been the only one with doubts. She’d voiced them too. He’d heard them whispering.

“Harry.” 

Hermione’s soft voice broke through his maudlin, rambling thoughts and he turned his face slightly toward her, though his eyes remained on Ron’s empty bed. 

“I-I’ve made some breakfast,” she murmured, then added, “if you’re hungry.”

Harry just nodded. He wasn’t. The thought of food made his stomach roil, but food was a luxury in their situation and it made no sense to let it go to waste. They’d listened to Ron complain about it enough, after all. The memory made Harry’s throat clench and he forced himself to take a deep breath. A warm hand settled on his shoulder and he looked up, not realizing that Hermione had moved closer.

“It’ll be fine,” she assured him, though he could see in her face that she’d didn’t necessarily believe that. “We’ll be fine,” she repeated.

Harry nodded but found himself leaning toward her. He pressed his shoulder and face into her side and closed his eyes. Hermione stepped in closer, one arm wrapping around him while the other hand cradled the back of his head. It was a small comfort, one he should probably be offering to her, but he simply couldn’t stop himself. He wrapped an arm around her, drawing her that much closer, the air stuttering in his lungs as he tried to breathe. 

A part of him was raw and in tatters. He wanted this to be done. He wanted the search over with; wanted Voldemort dead and forgotten. He wanted - Ron back.

Tears prickled along the closed lids of Harry’s eyes and he choked down the desire to cry. If he fell apart now, he wasn’t certain he’d be able to pick the pieces back up again.

“I’m sure-” Hermione began, but stopped and then started again. “It wasn’t-”

She stopped again, seemingly as uncertain as he was. They both loved Ron. They both wanted him here. Needed him. Harry just needed him for different reasons. For Hermione it was friendship. Ron and Harry were the strong shoulders she leaned on when things got difficult and they were the ones who could make her laugh when no one else could. They were a family. But for Harry, Ron was so much more. 

He couldn’t remember when the friendship had changed, couldn’t recall the first time he’d looked at Ron with desire in his heart instead of friendly, brotherly affection. But it was there. He needed him in a visceral, life-altering kind of way that gave him pause at times. At first, he’d felt guilty about it. Lusting after your friend wasn’t appropriate. Especially not your very male, very straight friend. Except, there’d been things, little things, that had made Harry wonder if his feelings had been returned. 

First had been the way Ron had touched him sometimes; a hand on the back of his neck when he was stressed - applying just the right amount of pressure to make Harry go weak-kneed; a firm, reassuring squeeze to his leg when no one was looking, too high up on the thigh to be anything but inappropriate. 

The second had been his best friend’s growing jealousy and possessiveness. It had started with Ron’s jealousy over Cho and even the small, friendly exchanges Harry had shared with Cedric. Ron had gone from cold and hostile to always at his side, always there and pressed in too close when Harry was near one or the both of them. Though in hindsight, Harry wondered how much of his crush on Cho was merely a distraction from how he’d already felt about Ron. It had been Ron in the lake waiting for him after all. It had been him that had meant the most. Always him. But Harry had been in denial then and the world had upended itself with Voldemort’s return and Cedric’s death. Harry had tried not to want Ron after that. He’d suppressed his feelings. He’d chased after Cho and then danced around possible feelings for Ginny, but neither had gone anywhere. 

And then there had been his obsession with Malfoy. That had been another relationship that had left Harry wondering at times what his real motivations were. Even Ron had pointed out, more than once, that his unhealthy fixation on the Slytherin git had gotten out of control. Harry had brushed it off, claimed he’d just known Malfoy had been up to something bad. Which had been true, but still, there’d been more and Harry could admit to that now. He’d needed something from Malfoy, craved it. Maybe it had been a distraction, maybe a fight. Probably it had been more. The truth was, Harry didn’t know. All he knew, was it had been nothing compared to what he’d wanted from Ron and every touch, every jealous rage and possessive look from the other boy had sent Harry spiraling further and further into lust and longing and guilt over feelings he hadn’t understood or wanted.

“He loves you, Harry,” said Hermione gently, her tone calm and reassuring despite how jarring the words actually were to him. She knew? 

Harry pulled back from her and looked up to meet her gaze. Of course she knew. Hermione knew them better than they knew themselves most days. If anyone could read them - read him - it was her.

Harry shook his head, the corners of his mouth teetering between a smile and a frown. “No,” he denied, head shaking more vehemently. He was confused and hurt and had been in this closet for too long to simply give life to it now. “He…”

Hermione’s hand grabbed his chin and forced him to look at her. “Loves you,” she finished and her tone brooked no argument. “And you love him.”

He smiled sadly up at her. Something uncoiled in his chest; something he’d not realized had been slowly crushing him until now.

“He was so angry,” Harry whispered and blinked against the tears that had been threatening to fall since Ron’s departure. “The things we said to each other-”

It was Hermione’s turn to shake her head. “You’ve said worse,” she assured him. “And it was the Horcrux making him that way.”

She shifted and sat next to him, her hand falling away from his chin to take his and hold it. “Our doubts and fears aside, Ron would never have attacked you like that had he been thinking clearly.”

Harry snorted. They had argued and attacked each other plenty before.

“Or maybe it just finally allowed him to say what he really felt,” Harry replied. “Maybe Ron’s just done, Hermione. With me and this stupid war.”

He looked away from her, unable to meet that knowing glint in her eyes any longer, and she squeezed his hand. “Ron’s insecure and stubborn and wouldn’t be able to verbalize a real emotion even if his life depended on it, but we both know that’s not true. He’ll never be done with you, Harry. He’ll never just walk away.”

Hermione moved again, shifted until she was kneeling at his feet and he had no choice but to look at her. “The night that you tried to leave the Burrow on your own, he and I talked that night. You scared him, Harry. He was afraid to take his eyes off of you after that. He was so afraid that you would leave and we wouldn’t - he wouldn’t - be able to protect you.”

Harry snorted at the idea of that, but it warmed something in him. “Him, protect me,” he joked, but they both knew that Ron, and Hermione, had been protecting him for years. In fact, he was fairly certain he wouldn’t still be here if it hadn’t been for them.

Hermione gathered both of his hands in hers and smiled up at him. “Sometimes I think it’s his sole mission in life,” she teased and Harry couldn’t help himself, he chuckled.

The tears came then; not a flood of them, but enough that the strong facade he’d been trying so hard to maintain fractured and crumbled around him.

“What if they find him, Hermione?” he cried softly. “If the Death Eaters find him they’ll take him to-”

Hermione lifted up and squeezed his hands harder. “No,” she interjected. “No, Harry. We mustn’t think that way. We can’t. Because if we do-” She shook herself as if to ward off the possibility as well. “He’s fine,” she assured them both. “Stupid and impetuous and ill-tempered, but fine. He has family, Harry. There are places he can go. He’s safe. He has to be.”

Harry nodded as she stood, but he wasn’t sure he could convince himself as well as she had. 

“And we have to go on,” she told him as she released one of his hands and pulled him up by the other. “The river is rising. We need to move.”

Harry nodded again. “Right,” he murmured softly. 

Moving was final. Ron would never be able to find them if he came back. When he came back.

“Hermione-” he began.

“I know,” she replied without need for him to finish. Her tone had wavered in its determination, but she kept moving, pulled him towards the table after only pausing for a moment. “But we can’t wait. No matter how much we might want to. So sit, and eat. And then we go.”

She pushed him down into a chair and Harry nodded, his gaze on the meager breakfast she’d scrounged up for them. They would have to find more food soon or they’d never last the winter.

“Thank you, Hermione,” he said, looking across the table at her after she’d settled as well. “Ron was right - we’d be lost without you.”

A light pink blush spread across her cheeks and Hermione offered up a small smile as she tucked into her breakfast. 

“Eat your food, Harry,” she commanded softly.

* * *

Days turned into weeks, autumn into winter, and Harry tried his best not to dwell on his fear or worry over Ron’s absence. Hermione and he moved from place to place, never lingering too long. They went over details time and again, retraced steps, rehashed old arguments and suggestions. Hermione had even taken to bringing out Phineas’ portrait and setting it up in a chair of its own as though he were an apt replacement for the person they were truly missing.

Harry ignored it, though a part of him welcomed it a little, even. Phineas showed himself from time to time and they conversed, but every conversation ended with him trying to garner information on their whereabouts and Hermione banishing him back to the confines of her bag. Harry found it amusing. Frustrating, yes, but still amusing. At least they were getting bits of information in return. Phineas kept them apprised of the goings-on at Hogwarts and Harry ground his teeth at the idea of Snape as Headmaster, in Dumbledore’s office, living Dumbledore’s life. It sat wrong with him, left a sour taste in his mouth.

In the evenings, after they’d exhausted all possibilities and found themselves no closer to a solution, Hermione always retired first and Harry had taken to bringing out the Marauder’s Map. He longed for the moment that Ron’s labeled dot would appear, the redhead safe within the school walls and protected by his pureblood status. Only the moment never came. Ron was still lost to him, somewhere out in the world where he couldn’t see him, protect him, assure himself that the other boy hadn’t been taken and tortured. Or worse, killed.

He longed for the comfort of Ron’s presence at his side. It wouldn’t take much to put Harry at ease. A touch, a word, a smile. Anything from the other boy would be like a balm, soothing and comforting, reminding him that he was stronger than he was. He recalled the small touch in the cafe, after the wedding, after the Death Eaters had found them. 

_ Ron had gripped his chin, his fingers digging into skin and bone as he’d twisted Harry’s head to the side. _

_ “You can’t go two seconds without getting hurt can you?” the other boy had chastised and then Ron’s thumb had gently brushed over Harry’s jaw, over a small cut that he’d not even known was there. _

He’d been gentle and brash all at once. It was the only way Ron knew how to be when he was worried and Harry had melted a little, danger forgotten for a second.

Harry tried to convince himself, most of the time, that he’d know if Ron were dead. He’d feel it. There’d be a part of him that would just - break. It was ridiculous really and he knew it, but the delusion helped him keep going. It helped him hold on to that little shred of hope he had that Ron was safe and loved and as far away from danger as he could get.

Before long, twinkling Christmas lights began to appear in the scattering of homes they passed. The holidays were upon them. Christmas trees glowed through frosted windows and echoes of carols floated out to them whenever they’d venture too close to a small town or village.

Harry wished for the warm walls of Hogwarts more than ever then. Or even the Burrow or Grimmauld Place. He missed the smell of Mrs. Weasley’s cooking and the laughter of the other Weasley siblings as they all waited to eat. Most of all, he missed the games of Wizard’s chess and quidditch with Ron. 

Those thoughts led to darker ones, of course. Ron had been right. Dumbledore had left him with nothing. He’d prepared him for nothing. All those years of speculation and fighting and searching and well-meaning assurances of safety and time had yielded nothing. Harry wasn’t prepared for this fight. He wasn’t prepared for Voldemort. He couldn’t keep him out. Couldn’t fight him. Couldn’t win. Ron had been right to leave. 

Each time he sank into that hole of self-loathing and doubt, Harry found himself thinking of Godric’s Hollow and his parents. They’d given up everything for him. They’d fought against Voldemort and they’d died. Betrayed by someone they’d loved. It wasn’t the same. Harry knew that. He knew that Ron, no matter what the circumstance, would never betray them. Still, the need to go there, to find some other form of connection to the life he’d lost only seemed to grow day after day.

Finally, one night after Hermione had managed to sneak off into a small village and replenish some of their supplies, he got up the nerve to speak up. Part of him knew that she would shoot the idea of going into Godric’s Hollow down. She had before, after all. This time it meant more though. They needed some direction and short of breaking into Hogwarts, this seemed like the best course of action. It didn’t hurt that she was in good spirits after they’d filled their bellies with good food - which she had prepared masterfully - and they’d spent an evening with the Horcrux safely hanging at the foot of a bed and not around either of their necks.

“Hermione-” he began and settled in a chair across from her. 

She was curled up with the copy of _The Tales of Beedle the Bard_ that Dumbledore had left her, pouring over its pages for the hundredth time. Harry couldn’t imagine what more the book might reveal to her, but Dumbledore had clearly left it to her for a reason and she wasn’t going to stop until she discovered it.

“I was thinking-”

“Can you look at this?” she asked suddenly, leaning towards Harry as though he hadn’t spoken at all, and handed him the book. 

“Look at that symbol,” she said, pointing to the top of a page. Above what Harry assumed was the title of the story (being unable to read runes, he could not be sure), there was a picture of what looked like a triangular eye, its pupil crossed with a vertical line.

“I never took Ancient Runes, Hermione.”

“I know that, but it isn’t a rune and it’s not in the syllabary, either. All along I thought it was a picture of an eye, but I don’t think it is! It’s been inked in, look, somebody’s drawn it there, it isn’t really part of the book. Think, have you ever seen it before?”

“No- No, wait a moment.” Harry looked closer. “Isn’t it the same symbol Luna’s dad was wearing round his neck?”

“That’s what I thought too!”

“Then it’s Grindelwald’s mark.”

She stared at him, open-mouthed.

“What?”

“Krum told me-”

He recounted the story that Viktor Krum had told him at the wedding. Hermione looked astonished.

“Grindelwald’s mark?”

She looked from Harry to the weird symbol and back again. “I’ve never heard that Grindelwald had a mark. There’s no mention of it in anything I’ve ever read about him.”

“Well, like I say, Krum reckoned that symbol was carved on a wall at Durmstrang, and Grindelwald put it there.”

She fell back into the old armchair, frowning.

“That’s very odd. If it’s a symbol of Dark Magic, what’s it doing in a book of children’s stories?”

“Yeah, it is weird,” said Harry. “And you’d think Scrimgeour would have recognized it. He was Minister, he ought to have been expert on Dark stuff.”

“I know. Perhaps he thought it was an eye, just like I did. All the other stories have little pictures over the titles.”

She did not speak but continued to pore over the strange mark.

Harry tried again.

“Hermione?”

“Hmm?”

“I’ve been thinking. I — I want to go to Godric’s Hollow.”

Hermione looked up at him, a thoughtful look on her face as she settled the book on her lap. She looked as though she’d already accepted the inevitability of Harry’s request.

“I’d expected this sooner or later,” she said with a small sigh but didn’t seem in any hurry to shoot the idea down like before. “And as much as I don’t like it and as dangerous as it will be, I think you’re right.”

Harry blinked owlishly at her. “Come again?” he asked, having already prepared himself for more of a fight.

“Well,” she began and closed the book, then set it aside on the small table next to the chair, “The sword, Harry. I’ve been thinking more and more that perhaps that’s where Dumbledore hid the sword of Gryffindor. Godric’s Hollow was the birthplace of Godric Gryffindor and Dumbledore would have known you’d want to go there given the connection to your parents. It seems like the best place for him to have hidden the real sword and I’d assume he would have made that connection.”

Harry just continued to blink at her. In true Hermione fashion, she’d dumped information on him like it had been the most obvious thing in the world and  _ why hadn’t he already thought of it himself _ ?

“Godric Gryffindor was from Godric’s Hollow?” he asked, truly unaware of the fact but recognizing the stupidity of the question as soon as it had left his mouth. The name was obvious enough, wasn’t it?

“Honestly, Harry, don’t you read?” she asked with a roll of her eyes. “ _ A History of Magic _ ? It’s all there.”

Harry arched an eyebrow at her. “Is that a real question?” he asked; equal parts sincerity and teasing. “Have we met before?”

She rolled her eyes again and shook her head. “Hopeless. The both of you.”

The reference to Ron sobered them both a little and while Harry looked away from her, determined to avoid the topic, Hermione shifted to the edge of her seat and pressed on. 

“Bathilda Bagshot lives in Godric’s Hollow, Harry. Dumbledore’s family and her’s were close. Perhaps he entrusted the sword to her for safekeeping? And if she doesn’t have it, maybe she knows where it is.” 

Harry nodded, thankful that she didn’t detour from the main point of the conversation. “It’s worth a shot,” he stated, his heart fluttering wildly in his chest. 

“The best one we’ve got at least,” Hermione agreed. “But we’ll need to be careful. You Know Who will have followers there. He’ll know if you show up. We’ll need disguises. Polyjuice potion would be best. And we’ll need to practice Disapparating under the cloak. Disillusionment charms would be good.”

Harry moved from his seat and pulled her up to envelop her in a tight hug. “Thank you, Hermione.”

She wrapped her arms around him and pressed her face into the side of his neck. “Just promise me we’ll be careful, Harry. You can’t just fly off willy-nilly there. We have to have a plan and we have to stick to it.”

“I promise,” he said and pressed a gentle kiss into her hair.

He couldn’t believe that she had agreed. It was happening. He was going home. At last.

* * *

As plans were wont to do, everything in Godric’s Hollow had gone irrevocably bad. He’d found his parents, their graves at least, and there had been a small part of him that wished he’d been there with them. Three headstones in a row, two big, one small, their fight over. Why had he been spared that night? What was so special about him? 

Nagini, who had indeed been waiting for them, probably would have happily granted Harry’s wish had it not been for Hermione’s quick thinking. Harry had put up a fight, yes, and he knew that Nagini had simply been there to detain not kill. Still, Harry would have fought to the end to protect Hermione and she’d been the one to save them both. Unfortunately, Harry’s wand had gotten caught in the crossfire. It was done, broken just like the rest of him.

Their trip to Godric’s Hollow had given them more than just a brush with death at least. It had rewarded them with a copy of  _ The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore _ . It told of Dumbledore’s earlier life, of his association with Gellert Grindelwald, and all of the things he’d neglected to share with Harry before his death. The book revealed a Dumbledore to him that Harry wasn’t certain he wanted to know. It’d made him angrier. It had hurt. The man in the book was not the man he’d known. Or was he? The old wizard had always been secretive. Dumbledore had played his cards close to the vest and Harry, even while the man had been alive, had always felt as though he were being kept in the dark.

Hermione had tried to talk him through his anger. She’d rationalized it and offered logic for the change between young Dumbledore and the man they had known. Logic in the face of disillusioned anger and resentment, however, didn’t do much. Harry had needed his anger at the time. He’d needed to lash out. The whole world, it felt like, was against him. Fate, herself, had deemed him unworthy it seemed and Harry was spiraling.

_ He loved you _ , Hermione had told him.  _ I know he loved you. _

The words hadn’t made Harry feel any better though. He’d wanted to believe them. Dumbledore had been his mentor, his protector, and the closest thing to a grandfather he could have hoped to get. So the betrayal, the omission of so many important things, it was a though he’d never known the man at all.

* * *

Harry felt as though he hadn’t slept for days. Nagini’s bite and the Horcrux had left him feeling stretched thin. He hurt all over, like having only just recovered from a nasty flu. Looking at himself in the mirror, he brushed a hand over the barely-there smattering of scruff, but couldn’t be arsed to shave. His hair was in its usual, wild disarray. He looked pale, exhaustion having taken its toll, and the dark hollows beneath his eyes were pronounced and angry looking.

Sleep wasn’t something he wanted to attempt , however. The nightmares were enough that he never wanted to sleep again most days. So instead, he dressed in as many sweaters as he could pull on and went to relieve Hermione from the watch.

“It’s late,” he told her. “Go and rest.”

“You don’t look well, Harry,” she pointed out as she rose from where she’d been sitting by the mouth of the tent. “Shouldn’t you stay in bed for awhile? You didn’t really give yourself enough time to recover.”

Harry placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. “I’m fine. Really. Now go.”

She nodded, held out her wand for him to take, and then disappeared into the tent.

The night was frigid. Snow blanketed the ground around them and their was a brisk wind blowing through the trees. He thought momentarily about going and fetching a blanket from inside, but settled for a quick warming charm instead and moved to seat himself at the base of one of the larger trees near their camp.

The Forest of Dean was beautiful and peaceful. Hermione had suggested, with no real intent, that they remain there. They could lose themselves to the outside world here, grow old, have some semblance of a life. Harry knew she’d never follow through with it and as tempting as it was, neither would he. Their families were elsewhere, in danger, fighting to stay safe and alive until they could figure out a way to bring Voldemort down. Still, it had been a tempting thought. Perhaps he’d come back here once the war was over. If he survived.

His thoughts wandered to Ron - where he was, what he was doing, was he safe? He thought of a moment, just before dawn, at Grimmauld Place. They’d spread out the sleeping bags in the sitting room so as to be near each other and Harry had woken first. Two of Ron’s fingers had been laced with his own. At the time he’d dismissed it as an accident of sleep, but he’d held on to that small, innocent touch until the other boy had shifted away, rolling in his sleep.

The memory caused the coiling ache in his chest to tighten and his eyes burned. More now than ever, Harry wanted Ron close, He needed him, needed to look into those bright blue eyes and be reminded that there was still something in this world worth hanging on for. He needed the comfort of his presence and the warmth of his smile. Even as angry as he was with Ron, having him here would be better than the empty hollow that seemed to spread a little more every day that he was gone.

Harry’s eyelids grew heavy, drooped as the ghost of warm fingers against his own lulled him into sleep. It was there, on the cusp of slumber that a strange, bright silver light caught his attention through the trees. He thought himself hallucinating at first, but after blinking the sleep from his eyes, Harry realized the light was drifting towards him. It was slow and silent, gliding gracefully through the pitch of night, cutting the darkness.

Harry pushed himself quickly to his feet, Hermione’s wand in hand as the light grew close. It stepped out from a tree at the edge of the clearing, revealing itself to be the wraith-like figure of a silver-white doe. She was breathtaking, slender and sparkling like stardust as she crossed silently over the snow towards him.

She stopped, barely a foot away from him, and met his gaze. Harry felt drawn to her. She was familiar to him, comforting like the presence of an old friend. And then she was gone - turned and walked away into the wood, leaving as quickly as she had come.

Harry stumbled after her, protective wards be damned. “Wait!” he yelled, panic gripping him at her departure. “Come back!”

The doe did not stop. She stepped sure and silently through the darkened trees, slow enough for him to follow, but quick enough that Harry slipped a time or two in the snow in his haste. He cast a quickly muttered,  _ Lumos _ , to light his way.

She led him into a large clearing, stopped, looked back to him, and just as he thought he might reach her, she vanished.

“No,” he panted quietly, chest heaving from his sprint. The inky darkness settled around him again, caused a shiver to pierce the warming charm he’d cast earlier.

Something gleamed in the light of the wand, and Harry spun about, but all that was there was a small, frozen pool, its cracked black surface glittering as he raised the wand higher to examine it. 

He moved forward rather cautiously and looked down. The ice reflected his distorted shadow and the beam of wandlight, but deep below the thick, misty gray carapace, something else glinted. A great silver cross . . . 

His heart skipped into his mouth: He dropped to his knees at the pool’s edge and angled the wand so as to flood the bottom of the pool with as much light as possible. A glint of deep red . . . It was a sword with glittering rubies in its hilt. . . . The sword of Gryffindor was lying at the bottom of the forest pool.

Harry’s heart thudded hard in his chest.  _ How? _ He asked himself.  _ How could this be? _

He looked around, desperate to locate who had done this, who had led him to the sword, but no figure revealed itself. No sound made itself known in the silence. He looked back to the sword lying at the bottom of the pond and cocked his head to the side.

“ _Accio_ sword,” he commanded in a rushed whisper. Nothing happened. 

Quickly, he stepped to the edge of the frozen pond and began to disrobe. The winter chill cut through him like icy talons, but the small ache would be worth the reward once the sword was safely in his possession. He’d simply have to retrieve it the old fashioned way.

“ _Diffindo_ ,” he cast once standing back on the ice and it cracked, melted away before him until a large opening appeared before him. Large enough for him to slip down into the icy waters below.

Harry quickly tossed Hermione’s wand back to his discarded clothes, and after a few deep breaths and a silently whispered prayer, he dove.

A wave of white-hot agony closed around him. It stole the breath from his lungs, bit and tore at him until Harry nearly forgot why he’d jumped into the water to begin with. The sword glinted below him, focused him, and he pushed deeper, trembling arm outstretched before him.

Only, something caught him up. The locket. He’d forgotten to take off the Horcrux. It jerked around his neck, dragged him backwards, choking him and yanking until a desperate panic engulfed him. He clawed at his throat, feet kicking and lashing out in the deadly cold water.

Harry panicked, one hand pressing against the layer of ice above him, while the other pulled against the chain strangling him. It wasn’t enough though. He was weakening, his air fading. Something caused the water to ripple and roll around him and as darkness crept into the corners of his vision, he felt a strong hand close around him.

The world transitioned violently. Harry coughed and gagged, puked up the water in his lungs as he fought to breathe. There was cold ground beneath him again. Someone had pulled him free of the pond. Someone had saved him.

He struggled to see, blinked through waterlogged vision, and dug one hand into frozen soil while the other curled into cold cloth. His clothes. Harry fumbled for his glasses, placed them quickly upon his head, and when the world swam into focus his heart stuttered in his chest. Ron.

Harry blinked hard, chest heaving, and shook his head. Ron was here, standing tall and furious before him, his clothes soaked and clinging to him.

“Are- you- _mental_?”

The sound of the other boy’s voice caused a tremor to roll over him and Harry didn’t know whether to cry or laugh. Perhaps he’d died and this was heaven.

“What the hell were you thinking?” Ron snarled at him, anger etched into the handsome lines of his face as he stalked forward, fist closed around the Horcrux. “This thing could have killed you! Would have if I hadn’t jumped in to save you! Bloody hell, Harry!”

Harry did laugh then, he laughed and coughed and threw his arms around Ron’s neck. Ron hugged him back, one strong arm wrapping around him so tightly that it stole Harry’s breath again. This was different though. He’d gladly die this way. He’d give every breath in his body to stay right here, tangled in the other boy’s embrace.

“Ron!” he gasped into the damp fabric of the redhead’s soggy sweater.

Ron’s cheek pressed into the top of Harry’s head. “Yeah,” the redhead whispered and held him tighter.

It wasn’t until a violent chill rippled through him that Ron released him and Harry backed away, taking the Horcrux with him. He moved to retrieve his clothes, his eyes never leaving the other boy for fear that he’d disappear if he looked away.

“Was it you?” he stuttered, teeth chattering hard in the cold.

“Well- yeah?” Ron replied and he looked at Harry as though he’d hit his head.

“You cast the doe?” Harry clarified as he drug another sweater over his head.

“What?” Ron questioned, confused. “The doe?” His gaze dropped to Harry’s chest. “Is that my sweater?”

Harry blinked at him, glanced down at the maroon sweater that was indeed Ron’s, and then looked up again, cheeks burning hot as he pulled another sweater over it.

“Did you cast the doe?” Harry asked again, unwilling to focus on anything else.

“I thought it was you,” Ron replied. “I- I saw it appear in the trees and then you behind it. I followed you, saw you jump into the water.” Ron’s Adam’s apple bobbed hard in his throat as he swallowed. “When you didn’t come back up, I jumped in after you.”

“My patronus is a stag,” Harry pointed out as he stripped out of his soaking boxers and pulled on his jeans. When he looked back to Ron, the redhead’s cheeks were a bright, blazing pink.

“Right,” Ron coughed and cleared his throat. “No antlers. Thought it um- looked funny.”

Harry arched an eyebrow at him, then stooped to pick up Hagrid’s pouch and Hermione’s wand. 

“What are you doing here, Ron?” he asked.

It wasn’t that he wasn’t happy to see his best friend, but Ron’s sudden appearance had shaken him. How had he found them? How was this possible? How had any of this been possible?

“I- well- I came back didn’t I?” Ron stammered, his feet shuffling against the snowy ground. “If you- if you want me.” He glanced up at Harry through dark lashes, his cheeks stained a darker shade of red. “Do you?”

“Of course we want you, Ron,” Harry said with a sigh. “We’ve been worried sick since you left you stupid git.”

Ron ducked his head again, shamefaced. “Yeah. Sorry.”

“Sorry?” Harry snapped, his joy at the other boy’s return suddenly overridden by all of the pent-up anger that had been stewing in him for weeks. “You left, Ron! It’s been weeks! _Weeks_! How could you leave like that? How could you-”

“I don’t know, okay!” Ron yelled back. “That- that thing-” He pointed to the Horcrux dangling from Harry’s hand. “It messed with my mind, Harry. Worse than you or Hermione. It- made me feel things. Made me think things. Things I’d already been thinking but- but worse. I was just so angry for so long and I- I couldn’t breathe, Harry.”

Ron took a deep breath and Harry felt his anger slipping away. He knew the Horcrux had affected Ron more than them. He knew he wouldn’t have left otherwise. Wouldn’t have said the things he’d said. Done the things he’d done.

“I regretted it the moment I saw you come out of the tent, Harry, but it was too late,” Ron confessed. “I wanted to come back. I’ve been trying to come back. Please believe that.”

Harry nodded, the ache in his chest easing some. He nodded towards the sword in Ron’s hand. “You should do it,” he told him.

Ron blinked at him, then looked from the sword to the Horcrux to Harry. “No,” he replied with a shake of his head. “Not me. You should do it, Harry.”

Harry narrowed his eyes at him. “Why are you here, Ron?” he repeated, this time with a different meaning behind the words.

“I- for you, Harry,” Ron stated and Harry’s heart fluttered a little in his chest. “For you and Hermione. I- I promised you. I gave you my word that I’d help.” He shrugged. “It’s how it should be, yeah? The three of us?”

And then his heart sank just as quickly, but he nodded. “Still, it should be you, mate. It affected you more than either of us. You pulled the sword out of the pond. It should be you.”

“Harry-” Ron began to protest, but Harry shook his head.

“If you’re going to be here, Ron, then you  _ have to be here _ . You have to help.” He laid the locket across the thick trunk of a downed tree. “You have to beat this thing.”

Ron’s Adam’s Apple bobbed again and he nodded, followed Harry to the tree. “I-”

“You can do this, Ron,” Harry assured him. “You saved my life. More than once. You’re strong and brave and I believe in you. I trust you.”

Ron’s posture straightened, his shoulders squared, and he nodded again. “Okay,” he said resolutely and raised the sword. “But how are you going to open it?”

Harry’s head bobbed back and forth a little. “Parseltongue,” he told him. “I’m going to ask it to open. It’s the only thing that makes sense.”

“Okay,” Ron repeated.

Harry gave a nod of his own and looked from the locket to Ron. “Ready?”

Ron nodded.

“ _ Open _ ,” Harry hissed, the single word slithering across his lips, and the golden doors of the locket popped open with a click.

Eyes, Tom Riddle’s dark brown eyes, stared up at them. They flicked frantically from one of them to the other. Ron faltered, caught by the suffocating wave of hate and fear and anger that oozed out into the forest around them.

“Do it, Ron!” Harry yelled, and the eyes flicked from him to the terrified redhead.

A voice hissed from out of the Horcrux. 

“ _ I have seen your heart, and it is mine. _ ” 

“Don’t listen to it!” Harry said harshly, his heart pounding so hard in his chest that it physically hurt. “Destroy it!” 

“ _ I have seen your dreams, Ronald Weasley, and I have seen your fears. All you desire is possible, but all that you dread is also possible. . . . _ ” 

“Do it, Ron!” shouted Harry; his voice echoed off the surrounding trees, the sword point trembled, and Ron gazed down into Riddle’s eyes. 

“ _ Least loved, always, by the mother who craved a daughter . . . Least loved, now, by the boy who prefers your friend… prefers your sister… prefers anyone to you. . . . Second best, always, eternally overshadowed . . . _ ” 

“Destroy it!” Harry bellowed. 

He could feel the locket quivering in his grip and was scared of what was coming. Ron raised the sword still higher, and as he did so, Riddle’s eyes gleamed scarlet. Out of the locket’s two windows, out of the eyes, there bloomed, like two grotesque bubbles, the heads of Harry and Hermione, weirdly distorted. 

Ron yelled in shock and backed away as the figures blossomed out of the locket, first chests, then waists, then legs, until they stood in the locket, side by side like trees with a common root, swaying over Ron and the real Harry, who had snatched his fingers away from the locket as it burned, suddenly, white-hot. 

“Ron!” he shouted, “Please!” But the Riddle-Harry was now speaking with Voldemort’s voice and Ron was gazing, mesmerized, into its face.

“ _ Why return? We were better without you, happier without you, glad of your absence. . . . We laughed at your stupidity, your cowardice, your presumption — _ ” 

“ _ Presumption! _ ” echoed the Riddle-Hermione, who was haughty and cruel and nothing like the real Hermione. 

She swayed, cackling, before Ron, who looked horrified yet transfixed, the sword hanging pointlessly at his side. 

“ _ Who could look at you? Who would ever look at you? What have you ever done? You’re plain and pathetic. Poor, stupid, pitiful Ronald Weasley. _ ” She leaned towards him, mouth curled in a cruel smile. “ _ How could he ever want you, when he could have me? _ ”

“Ron, stab it, STAB IT!” Harry yelled, but Ron did not move. His eyes were wide. A devilish likeness of his sister had appeared with the other two. Her cruel smile reflected in Ron’s eyes, her hair swirling like flames, her eyes shining red, her voice a velvet, evil purr. 

“ _ Harry confessed to me once, _ ” sneered Riddle-Ginny, while Riddle-Harry and Riddle-Hermione leered, “ _ that I was the only Weasley he could ever love. The only Weasley worthy of his heart . . . _ ” 

“ _ Who wouldn’t prefer her? I could love Ginny. Love Hermione. They’re better than you. More than you. You are nothing, Ron. Nothing, nothing, nothing to me, _ ” taunted Riddle-Harry, and his arms closed around Riddle-Ginny and Riddle-Hermione. He wrapped in a close embrace, pulled them both flush against his sides, their arms going around his middle. Their lips met. Harry’s to Ginny’s and the to Hermione’s.

On the ground in front of them, Ron’s face filled with anguish. He raised the sword high, his arms shaking. 

“Do it, Ron!” Harry pleaded.

Ron looked toward him, and Harry thought he saw a trace of scarlet in his eyes. “Ron — ?” 

The sword flashed, plunged. Harry closed his eyes, waited, but the sharp stab of the blade never came. When he opened his eyes, the monstrous versions of himself, Hermione, and Ginny were gone. There was only Ron, standing there with the sword held slackly in his hand, looking down at the shattered remains of the locket on the flat rock. 

Harry shakily pulled himself to his feet, chest heaving, his mind trying to reconcile what he’d just seen.

“Ron-” he whispered, but the redhead shook his head, the sword slipping from his fingers to clink against the frozen forest floor.

“Don’t.”

Harry moved then, he closed the distance between them and cupped the back of Ron’s head with his hands. “It’s you, Ron,” he murmured, breathless. “It’s always been you.”

Ron’s eyes went wide and Harry didn’t hesitate. He leaned in, lips closing over his friend’s in a rough, desperate kiss. Ron didn’t react, just stood stock-still, lips pressed into a firm line. Harry’s heart twisted in his chest. Had he misread it all somehow?

Crushed, Harry retreated, his gaze cast down to the ground in embarrassment and shame. Ron moved then, his hands fisted into the front of Harry’s sweater and yanked him back. Harry gasped into the kiss that followed. Rough, chapped lips covered his own. The kiss was messy and hard, all tongue and teeth and blind need. Harry whined and pressed himself closer. Ron’s arms closed around him, pulling Harry so tight against him that they were practically one body and Harry’s head spun.

They parted at the need for air, gasping, foreheads pressed together. “I’ve- wanted to do that- for so long now,” Harry panted and he kissed him again, softer this time.

He sucked at Ron’s bottom lip, slow and gentle. Kissed him again and again until he felt the taller boy tremble against him.

“I love you, Ron,” he confessed, eyes closed against a small remaining fear of rejection.

Ron nuzzled their noses together, kissed him again. “I love you too,” he whispered and this time it was Harry’s turn to tremble.

“Don’t leave me again,” Harry pleaded softly.

Ron shook his head gently. “Never,” he breathed against Harry’s lips. “Never ever.”

A tear slipped past the line of Harry’s dark lashes and Ron kissed it away.

They stood that way, wrapped in each other’s arms, until Ron gave a nasty shiver. He was still in wet clothing and they would both catch their deaths if they didn’t get warm soon. Reluctantly, Harry backed out of his arms and turned to retrieve the locket as Ron picked up the sword.

“Let’s go,” Harry said, his hand held out for Ron to take. “Hermione will be waiting and we should get you into some warm clothes.”

Ron slipped his hand into Harry’s, their fingers lacing together, but Harry didn’t move.

“This is real- isn’t it?” Harry asked. “I dreamed so many times that you’d come back. That I- that we-”

Ron stepped back into him and brought his hand up to kiss Harry’s knuckles. “It’s real,” he assured him. “I’m real.” He pressed a soft, lingering kiss to Harry’s lips. “This is real.”

Harry smiled up at him, swallowed down the last of his doubt, and nodded. 

“Let’s get you home,” he murmured.

Ron smiled lopsidedly at him. “If we can find it,” he teased.

Harry snorted, but he wasn’t worried. Not anymore.


End file.
